


Home to meet the family

by Caers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caers/pseuds/Caers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a bit of a Christmas fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home to meet the family

Sherlock doesn’t go home often. In the two years John’s been living with him he’s never known Sherlock to accept any of the invitations Mycroft leaves on the mantel. 

Last Christmas were the serial robberies. Easter was a flat refusal because Sherlock didn’t have time for outdated Pagan-Christian rituals, and had sat on the couch eating Cadbury eggs for the entire weekend, yelling at the telly through chocolate and caramel and white goo. 

The Christmas before that was spite. John’s pretty sure it was spite, even if Sherlock had said he was in the middle of composing something, “So go away and stop asking useless questions!” and had slammed his bedroom door. John’s pretty sure he was in there eating tins of chocolate biscuits. And all the nice cheeses he’d bought, or else some very hungry mice had raided the fridge. 

John doesn’t really say anything about it because he doesn’t go anywhere for the holidays either. Harry’s managing to keep a one-bedroom flat, but John’s brushed too close to alcoholism to want to see it destroy his sister, so he tries to stay away. Nothing he’s ever been able to say or do has helped her, and he just can’t watch her at it anymore. 

So it’s quite a surprise when John comes home from the surgery to find Sherlock pacing the lounge, two small suitcases on the landing. 

“There you are!” Sherlock says, and turns John around, hands him a suitcase, and ushers him down the stairs. “Sarah said you left an hour ago. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it here by the time the taxi arrived.” 

John steps outside and still isn’t at all clear on what’s going on except that this is his case, and probably his own clothes inside, which meant Sherlock had gone through his pants, and god, that was a whole level of privacy invasion he couldn’t even... “What the hell is going on?” he says, just as a black cab pulls up.

“In, in!” Sherlock orders, by passing the boot and taking both suitcases in to the taxi with them. “Marleybone,” he tells the driver. 

“Sherlock, I’m jumping out if you don’t tell me where we’re going,” John threatens, but they both know he won’t, and that he will, in fact, go anywhere Sherlock wants to go even if there is no explination given.

“Then you’ll likely have a real limp,” Sherlock replies, and John frowns slightly because he can almost swear he hears nervousness in Sherlock’s voice. They get out at the rail station, and John pays the cabbie and follows Sherlock. 

“Tickets?” he asks, and isn’t surprised when Sherlock holds them up. They end up having to run for the train, but settle nicely into the first class seats. John doesn’t push for an answer. It’s a long ride, and Sherlock is sure to tell him in due time.

They’ve been going for over an hour when Sherlock shifts in his seat across from John and closes his laptop and clears his throat. “We’re going up to Yorkshire,” he finally says, keeping his voice soft, his eyes on the window.

John sits up straighter in his seat. “Yorkshire?”

“The family seat,” Sherlock clarifies. “Where the family estate is.”

“Where, where you grew up?” John’s very interested now, and also a little disappointed that it’s not some new mystery. “Is something wrong? Is that why the rush?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand and leans back, settling his gaze on John. “My brother has decided to come home.”

“Mycroft? Leaving London?”

“Not Mycroft.” Sherlock taps his fingers restlessly on the laptop. “I have another brother. Sherringford.” He holds up a hand to forestall questions, and takes a few moments before continuing. “He left home many years ago, after our father took offence with his, and I quote, ‘perverse and twisted sexual proclivities’. It is one of the reasons I do not go home. But our father died over a year ago, and don’t go all sympathetic on me, I can see you pulling that face. He was a boorish and antiquated man, and I can only say good riddance to him.”

“And does Mycroft feel the same?” John has a hundred questions to ask, but right now, trying to figure out the Holmes’ family’s view on this, seems the most important.

“God, no. Why do you think he came to London? Dropped out of university and took over the government just to spite our father. He was supposed to be a lawyer.”

John shudders at the very thought. “Alright. So your brother is coming home and you want to see him. You could have just said that.”

“I, wasn’t sure you would want to come.” Sherlock sighs heavily. “No, I know you would have come. I didn’t want you think me, overly emotional, I suppose.”

“Sherlock, you’re one of the most emotional people I’ve ever met,” John says with a laugh. “Even if you don’t think you are.”

“I am not! I am...”

“A drama queen,” John interrupts. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. “It’s his birthday tomorrow,” he concludes. “I wanted to be there for it. I haven’t seen him since I was five.”

“We should stop and get him something before we go to your house,” John says. “Or should I call it a stately home? Mansion?”

Sherlock cracks a smile then, and John can see just how well and truly nervous he really is. “Home is adequate,” he says.

* * *

It’s dark, quite late, when they arrive. But a few of the lights are on. Sherlock unlocks the front door, then locks it behind them. They’ve barely gone a dozen foot steps in to the foyer when a male voice calls out to Sherlock.

“In here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and leads John in to a study and there’s a lanky man there with a magnifying glass strapped to his head, bent over a display case on the desk. He straightens and grins, a terrifying sight, John thinks, seen through the magnifying glass. But Sherlock just smiles and clasps his hands behind his back.

“My boy, it’s been far too long,” Sherringford greets and takes off the glass and comes over to hug Sherlock. He’s as tall as Sherlock, just as skinny, with thick dark hair streaked with grey, and full beard, immaculately trimmed. “You’ve grown, my goodness! I bought you a charming set of lederhosen, but I think you’ll have out grown them by now.” He claps Sherlock on the shoulder. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Sherlock says, and standing behind him, John can see how his fingers are twitching, almost as if he wants to return the hug, but daren’t. “Ah, my friend, Doctor John Watson.”

Sherringford steps up to John and looks down at him, and John feels like he’s being subjected to a scrutiny unheard of by either Mycroft or Sherlock. Then he nods and holds out his hand to John. “A pleasure to meet you, dear boy. Quite a catch, our Sherlock. Never forget that.”

“I’m sorry, what?” John says, frowning, followed by an exasperated sigh from Sherlock. 

“We’re not lovers,” Sherlock says, casting a glare at his brother.

Sherringford raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, then shrugs it off. “Well, your bedroom is prepared for you. Mother is asleep already. Mycroft says he can’t make it up this time of year.”

“Thank goodness for small mercies,” Sherlock mutters. “Oh, John, up the stairs, any of the doors on your right are guest rooms. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It’s always annoying, being dismissed, but John can stomach it this time. He takes only his suitcase up and chooses the first room. He sleeps well, and wakes the next morning to sunlight streaming through the window. Brilliant sun, but still not that warm. It would be a few more months before it came even close to warm up here.

He is surprised to find Sherlock sat in a chair on the far side of the room, drinking from a fine china cup. “If that’s my tea you’ve taken...” he begins but Sherlock gets up and brings him another cup. 

“Mummy insisted I bring it up for you,” Sherlock says. 

“Yes, well.” John takes the cup and drains the tea in one drink. “I prefer the mugs at home.”

“Mummy wanted to impress you with the fine china.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and brings the teapot over, and refills John’s cup. “There’s toast. You’ve missed breakfast but I’m sure Cook will make you something if you bat your eyelashes at her.”

John nearly chokes on his tea, and it makes Sherlock laugh softly so he settles for a glare. “So, that’s your oldest brother,” he says and gets up, goes over to the window.

“Yes. Get dressed, I’ll take you around the grounds.”

John dresses quickly and neither of them speak much until Sherlock is taking John around the extensive gardens. 

“Have you spoken to him at all since he left?” John asks.

Sherlock trails his fingers over the rosebushes, and John thinks he’s never seen Sherlock look so at peace. “Some. Emails,” he says. “More in the last few years. Smart phones were made for him, it seems. It makes it easier for him to keep in touch over his travels.”

“Why did he think we were lovers, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He stops at the fish pond and crouches down, trails his fingers in the cold water. “When I was a boy I used to try and swim in here,” he says. “I liked to play with the fish.”

“You called them fishies, didn’t you,” John says, laughing fondly. “I can just see you running down that walk, throwing off your clothes, screaming that you would play with the fishies.”

Sherlock looks up sharply at him, then allows a smile. “Yes, exactly that,” he says. “Mummy used to have Sherringford watch me, but he never saw the harm in letting me play in the pond and Mycroft wouldn’t touch me after I’d been in it. She had it covered when I was four, but I threw such hysterical fits that she had it uncovered. But I never did play in it again.”

John watches as Sherlock’s eyes go far away, just for a few moments, until he snaps himself back. He stands and reaches out, dries his fingers on John’s jacket. “Sherringford thinks we’re lovers because I told him we are,” he says, and turns and walks toward the trees.

“You what?” It’s a few moments before John can run after Sherlock, finds him leaning against an old oak tree. “You told him we were... Why would you do that?”

Sherlock sighs, as if put upon, and pointedly doesn’t look over at John. “Oh, do think, John. Why would I tell my gay, older brother that I was in relationship with another man?”

“I, don’t know. You wanted his approval? You could have let me know. I would have pretended, if you wanted. You know I don’t care.” Well, he does. But he thought Sherlock knew that already. He hadn’t been particularly sneaky about staring at Sherlock over the last couple of years, or making the odd comment about his arse. But it had never been returned, at least not that he’d known of. Sherlock had never indicated...

“No, it wasn’t.” Sherlock pushes a hand through his hair. “Yes. I wanted his approval. But I never thought he’d come home, John. I never thought he’d meet you.”

“You never thought you’d get caught out in the lie,” John says, and rubs his forehead. “Look, you know I fancy you, Sherlock. I refuse to believe you don’t know. If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you say something?”

“I have many, many reasons.”

“So, what, you were scared?” Yes, he’s pushing it, he knows that, but this time he feels he has a right to do so. He walks over to Sherlock, stops just in front of him. “Sherlock Holmes, afraid I’d say no? I don’t bloody believe it.”

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock says and pushes off the tree to walk away, but John pushes him back and crowds up against him. “John, I don’t think this is really the place for this.”

“I’m not going to give you a blowjob in the middle of the garden,” John says and reaches up to push his hand into Sherlock’s hair. “I’m just going to kiss you.” 

When Sherringford wanders by later and finds them still leaning against the tree, arms wrapped around each other, kissing lazily. “I thought you said you weren’t lovers,” he calls out to them, and just laughs when he gets a pair of rather rude gestures, and walks off in the other direction.


End file.
